The Easiest Thing
by TravelingSong
Summary: He is staring at their hands, their interlaced fingers, seems oddly flustered by it. "My pleasure, Lizzie" he says. It's a bit too strained, a bit too forced, and the chemistry in the room has shifted now and she still hasn't let go. "My pleasure." And then he lifts her hand and kisses it. Just like that. The easiest thing in the world.
1. Chapter 1

**So people pitched this scenario to me, and here it is. It'll be two chapters and ch. 2 is almost finished, so the wait won't be long. We all need something cute these days, don't we? Reviews would be much appreciated! Enjoy.**

* * *

She's not quite sure how this happened.

How exactly she ended up here, in a cabin on a mountaintop, the middle of nowhere really, a fireplace, a cup of hot chocolate in her hands, wearing a sweater that isn't hers. And then _him_. Looking back at her with wonder in his eyes, marveling at the sight- _it's just a sweater-_ and savoring the moment- _not an evening gown_ \- and smiling.

She had laughed at him when he had asked her the first time. A vacation, a skiing trip, he had to be out of his mind and of course she couldn't go and of course it was a ridiculous idea.

And of course she desperately needed a break.

And of course work was exhausting.

And of course she wanted to spend time with him, yes, that too.

And of course she finally agreed.

And now, days later, this is where she found herself. This is where it starts.

* * *

Raymond Reddington doesn't ski. Not anymore.

He used to, he tells her on the first evening, but now it's the quiet he likes, the tranquility, sweet isolation from the cruel world he inhabits. He comes here to rest, he says, to put things back into perspective and clear his head, and the chilly air certainly helps, she has noticed that as well.

They sit across from each other at the kitchen table, empty plates taking up the space between them. He's cooked again, as every night, one dish more elaborate than the other and she wonders if there is anything he has no talent for, besides modern technology. They have stayed at the cabin for almost a week now, and it really is a vacation, those long walks through the snow, their shared days and conversations, it's all so very reminiscent of their time on the run together and she wouldn't admit it but she's glad he asked her to accompany him.

She has missed him. Deeply and bitterly. She has missed him _so damn much_.

Because it's lonely without him. Because _she_ is lonely without him.

"Lizzie? Lizzie, are you alright?" She hears him then, his tone worried. She shakes her head, brings herself back to reality.

"Yeah, I'm fine. Sorry, I think I just drifted off for a moment."

"We can call it a night if you would like to get some sleep."

He looks so concerned, so caring, and she's overcome by a wave of affection, can't really help it, how her hand finds his in the center of the table suddenly, how she holds on to him.

"No, I'm fine, Red, really, I'm just…Thank you for bringing me here."

He is staring at their hands, their interlaced fingers, seems oddly flustered by it.

"My pleasure, Lizzie" he says. It's a bit too strained, a bit too forced, and the chemistry in the room has shifted now and she still hasn't let go. "My pleasure." And then he lifts her hand and kisses it. Just like that. The easiest thing in the world.

* * *

"So you're telling me you still have the full outfit hidden away in a closet in this very cabin?"

"Yes, but-"

"Show me."

"Absolutely not."

"Oh yes, Red."

Well. It's not like he has much of a choice now. Maybe he should have never mentioned it, how his old ski gear is still safely locked away in his bedroom, unbeknownst to the world and for the better of it, because it looks ridiculous and he is the first to admit that, not really in congruence with his usual wardrobe, but he gets sentimental so easily these days and yes, it's a memory at least, if not much else. And now she is practically beaming at him and he can't really deny her anything and she seems to realize that more often lately. Takes advantage of it. He needs to be more careful.

"I will not put on the suit," he states quite confidently and she is pouting and _dammit_ , "but I'll grant you the hat."

"Done."

It's much later into the night, long past dinnertime, and they have spent their evening exchanging stories, trips and travels, and then one thing led to another, as these conversations go, and now she is waiting for him to emerge from his bedroom in a ski hat. He surprises her, still, even though they know each other so well now, and while _Red_ is starting to make sense, _Raymond_ continues to remain an enigma. But she wants all of it. Past and present. The future, too.

She hears him rummaging around his closet and can't help the smile settling on her face, he really would do anything for her, as outrageous and self-deprecating as it might be, and she isn't too familiar with the feeling, to be adored and cherished like that, anything to make her happy and _you have me,_ the good times and the bad.

She sees him then, entering the living room slowly, and yes, this was most definitely worth the wait, she wants to memorize every detail, his wool socks on the wooden floor, the sound it makes, the dark jeans, thick navy sweater, and _the hat_ , the vintage pattern and ball on top and _god._ And the suits are good, of course, they're extraordinary, but this is a glimpse at _him_ , not the persona, just him and it's so much better, there's so much more there, so much to discover.

He stops in front of her, expectant and waiting and hoping, nervous tics here and there, and she stands, positions herself just right, just a bit too close, raises her hands and adjusts the hat the slightest bit, tugs and pulls, the material soft beneath her fingertips, his skin warm.

"You know, Red, I appreciate the fedoras, but this might just be my new favorite look of yours."

And it's sweet, the way she says it, it's loving. Somewhat breathless even, and he notices, too.

She could if she wanted to. It would be so easy to just lean in, to close the distance, it would be so-

"It's getting late," he says and he sounds sorry, she thinks. She hopes.

"Goodnight, Lizzie." A kiss on the cheek, and then she's alone.


	2. Chapter 2

**Remember when I said this fic would only have two chapters? Yeah, I lied. There'll be more after this. Thanks for all the reviews so far, love to hear your thoughts! Keeps me writing, too. Enjoy!**

* * *

She's wide awake.

It's one of those nights that haunt her more frequently lately, cruel images clear and bright before her eyes, a shot fired at the Attorney General, a shot fired at Red, and she's running, there's blood on her hands, there's blood everywhere, it's pervasive, her feet leave prints on the crimson ground beneath her, she's not running fast enough, she won't make it, she won't…

She can't control it. That's what frightens her. This deeply-rooted fear, her demons chasing her, and no way out. She's terrified to be alone, to go to sleep, to let her mind wander. That's all she knows these days.

She wonders if he's asleep. She wants to go to him, to make sure he is still here with her, another aching soul, the only one who truly understands her.

She could ask him to comfort her. She could ask him to tell her things would turn out okay eventually.

 _What do you want?_

And he could send her away, tell her to go back to her room and that they could talk things over in the morning.

 _What do you really want?_

But he wouldn't.

He wouldn't.

* * *

He's wide awake.

It's the events of their shared evening that he can't quite seem to forget, the way she was looking at him earlier, so open and beautiful and kind, as if he matters, as if he matters to _her_.

The way she leaned in almost imperceptibly. Yes, there's that, too.

It's been divine, having her here with him, to take care of her and make her smile, it's never disappointed him, this exact spot, the clear mountain air, safety and peace. She still doesn't sleep well, he knows, hears her sometimes as she cries, but he wants to give her space, wants to allow her to grieve in private for what she has lost, and if the time is right, maybe then she'll come ask for him, and then he'll be there like he always has.

He doesn't notice it at first, how his door opens slowly, how the faint brightness creeps in, and how she stands there, a mere silhouette. He's too lost in thought so it takes him a moment before he turns and sees her, and he waits, waits for an explanation, a clue for her intention, she seems fragile and ethereal, it's the light that does it, and what now?

"I can't sleep," she tells him, her voice insecure and pleading.

It's simple, really. So incredibly simple.

He nods and moves to the side of the bed, pulls back the covers.

"Come here."

She approaches him slowly, seems almost timid in her movements, and then he feels the mattress dip and she's next to him, observes and hesitates, makes up her mind finally and moves closer, rests her head on his chest, and he's surprised, surely, but this is _them,_ this is what they do. Make lines just to cross them. This is comfort.

"Are you alright, Lizzie?" he asks softly and places a kiss in her hair when she shakes her head in response.

She can feel his heart beating. There was blood once there, too.

"It's okay. It's going to be okay."

* * *

It's not the first time they've shared a bed, it's not the first time she's been listening to his steady heartbeat either, and yet there's something new in the way he holds her. He doesn't seem as scared anymore and that comes with trust, yes, that comes with the certainty that this was _her_ decision, to be this close to him, to feel him breathe. That she sought him out in the middle of the night instead of suffering through it alone. That he is her first choice.

He is perfectly still in the darkness of the room, eyes open, mind focused on the light pressure of her hand settled below his ribs. It's his new favorite spot, his new favorite sensation, like his arm around her, like the scent of her hair. He doesn't quite know if she's finally fallen asleep, is only convinced that he will stay completely conscious till morning knocks on his door. Greed gets the best of him sometimes, a very specific sort, to feel happy, utterly and completely, just this once, to help her, give her safety, give her something she has longed for for so long. To love her.

He does get things right sometimes.

She shivers against him suddenly, ends his reverie, and he pulls her closer, tightens the duvet around them, but she's trembling and it's not the cold, he senses, it's not the cold at all. He whispers calmly, _it's okay_ , and kisses her forehead, _I'm here, no reason to be scared, Lizzie, it's okay._ He thinks she's dreaming, turns his head now to get a better look, but her eyes are wide open, and it _stings_ , that look she gives him, like she's begging him to _make it stop,_ the panic, the anxiety, the nightmares, the trauma.

He's been through this before, many times, hundreds of times, and he endures it, the cruelty of the mind, but he won't watch her suffer, not in his company, not ever. Carefully he helps her sit up, frames her face with his hands, aligns her gaze with his, _look at me_ , and holds her there, _look at me, Lizzie._

It's worked before, he remembers it clearly, a violent reaction in the middle of a diner and eyes locked and _that's enough,_ but he won't raise his voice this time, he just needs her to concentrate. He can help her, he knows he can, he has to believe he can. _Just like that, Lizzie_ , _just the two of us._ He wipes away her tears with his thumbs, watches as her breathing calms, as the tension leaves her body, as her shoulders slump. It's his arms that encircle her, no questions asked, it's natural at this point, the need to protect her from all harm, whatever the reason.

 _I'm not going to let anything happen to you._

Finally, she sleeps.


	3. Chapter 3

**AN: Another chapter, and more to come, I promise. Please leave a review if you can! They're greatly appreciated and make my day.**

* * *

He's warm. That's the first thing she notices.

How tightly she is still gripping his shirt. That's the second.

How he lazily draws circles on her skin, up and down her arm, how those spots will never feel the same again. That's the third thing.

How he looks down at her as if he couldn't possibly be looking at anything more beautiful. That's the last thing. The thing that breaks her the most.

The memories of last night come back slowly, she doesn't really remember every detail but _him_ , she remembers that, and the steps towards his bed, and the tears and the desperation and the need, the visceral need to hold on to him. The only person whose reassurances she would believe, who she trusts, who she wants, who she _loves_ , and she's known for so long, too, and it aches. Because she's scared, she is terrified, to take that final step, to make that final admission. And what then? What would he do?

She wonders how long he's been awake. If he's slept at all. But his features appear softened when she looks back at him, his eyes are kind.

"How are you feeling, Lizzie?" he asks. Quietly, in his raspy morning voice, which she's grown accustomed to, those mornings on the run. Those mornings she misses.

She hasn't retreated yet, has considered it for a moment before deciding against it, wonders if she should feel ashamed, if this was a bad idea, but moves closer instead and rests her head on his shoulder again, and he shifts so she's comfortable and it's those gestures that never left a doubt in her mind, of course he loves her, of course he does.

She can't really answer him truthfully. She hasn't felt this safe in a long time, she could stay like this all day, with him close and next to her, skin against skin, that would be enough, and the words linger on the tip of her tongue and eventually vanish.

"Thank you," she tells him. Again, like last night over dinner. And he nods, another kiss, a little lower this time, near her temple.

"Anytime." It's honest. It's true. "Come on, I'll make us breakfast."

* * *

He takes her on a walk, distracts her, makes her laugh. The small touches are more evident now, more frequent, she pays closer attention to the way he smoothes her hair every now and then, how he takes his time, how he doesn't leave her side.

His stories, she could listen to them for days, they're ridiculous and colorful and exactly what she needs, something to roll her eyes at in good humor, and his sweet smile in return. He doesn't ask questions and she appreciates that, too, the fact that he doesn't direct the conversation into unwanted territory, and some things require time to be processed, require time to be introduced to the outside world, she'll get there and he'll be listening, he'll be holding her hand to guide her through it, if that's what she wants.

It's exactly what she wants.

* * *

She's seated on the couch by herself, a cup of hot chocolate waiting for her on the small table next to her, he must have placed it there earlier, she thinks, and shivers despite the warm air emanating off the fireplace, the cold from their walk still settled deep within her bones, and she wonders what's taking him so long, why he hasn't joined her yet. She should get up and put on warmer clothes, but she's too comfortable to move and her legs are weary, every mile a painful memory.

He's carrying something as he enters the living room, she can't quite make it out in the dim light until he stops in front of her, and then she's covered in something soft, a blanket gently surrounding her. There's something else in his hands, a dark bundle, and _oh_ , she recognizes it now and takes it from him, pulls it over her head and it's too big and the arms are too long, but nothing has ever felt as affectionate and intimate, his sweater on her skin.

"You seemed cold," is all he says as she watches something in his eyes light up at the sight of her, and he sits down, finally, keeps staring at her as if in awe.

"It's just a sweater," she teases, "not an evening gown," but his gaze cuts deep and she can't quite ignore its intensity. It's adoration, pure and complete. It's something more.

They sit in silence, have talked all day and this works, too, just their company and nothing else. She doesn't want to imagine a life without this anymore, had suffered through it after her exoneration, alone and away from him, a mere shadow of her old life, the hurt it had entailed and all the words left unsaid, because _thank you_ hadn't been enough, because _please don't leave_ had never reached his ears. She had been too stubborn to realize what he had become for her, eager to fight it, despite all that had happened, and she was _fine_ , wasn't she, she was okay and she was strong and she was-

"It's you."

He turns towards her, somewhat puzzled by her sudden statement. Waits for an explanation.

"It's you. In my dreams, every night. And I can't save you. Something always happens, I have your blood on my hands and I can feel it and I try so hard to help you, but I can't, Red. I can't."

He doesn't speak, is frozen in place now.

"I thought I was doing alright, you know. After the exoneration, I was convinced I was doing fine. And then I woke up the first morning and you weren't there. And then I knew."

He's barely breathing, his voice quiet against the crackling of the fireplace.

"Knew what, Lizzie?"

"That I needed you." _That I love you._

He can see it in her eyes, she knows, the full truth. She's tired of hiding it, tired of lying to herself, feels her hand being encircled by his then, somewhere underneath the blanket it's her pulse against his now, and maybe he's scared, too.

"Can I sleep in your room tonight?" she says.

"You don't have to ask, Lizzie," he tells her. "You never have to ask."

With their fingers intertwined, their secret to keep, she leans into him, and it's instinctive and natural and real, it's how they save each other, how he mends her scars, the way he kisses her, redemption on his lips and a sigh and reverence.

The cold suddenly gone.


End file.
